


wide-eyed (like we’re in a crime scene)

by notsafeforowls



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsafeforowls/pseuds/notsafeforowls
Summary: The thing is, Nate isn’t very good at making people feel better. It’s an unfortunate side effect of growing up with an overprotective mother, a distant father, and no friends because no one wants to play with the kid who could bleed to death if he gets hurt.





	wide-eyed (like we’re in a crime scene)

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt Steelwave and ‘the jittery, sick feeling when you can’t do anything.’ The title comes from Candles by Daughter.
> 
> This fic contains some spoilers for S03E07 'Welcome to the Jungle' as well as references to self-harm and child abuse.
> 
> I'm mickroryed on Tumblr, feel free to yell at me about ships over there.

The thing is, Nate isn’t very good at making people feel better. It’s an unfortunate side effect of growing up with an overprotective mother, a distant father, and no friends because no one wants to play with the kid who could bleed to death if he gets hurt. The only thing Nate has ever been good at is listening, and that’s because he doesn’t have to do anything except sit there and react appropriately.

 

Nate picks up another bottle of beer, twists off the metal cap. It tastes disgusting, and it’s doing a pretty bad job of drowning that sick, shaky feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it’s better than sitting in his room and trying to think up solutions sober.

 

Reacting? Reacting is easy as long as he doesn’t have to say anything. It’s the second he has to open his mouth and _say something_ that Nate gets that feeling in his stomach, the one that makes him feel like his guts are being tied in knots. He never knows what to say when it’s something serious.

 

Plus, he’s pretty sure that things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘it’s going to get better soon’ aren’t really things he can say to Mick, since he’s pretty sure Mick knows that it isn’t really going to get any better, and sorry just sounds like it’s not enough.

 

He should have asked Ray, Nate decides and picks at the label on the bottle. It’s soaked with condensation, coming apart at the slightest touch. Ray always knows what to say. He probably has a response prepared for finding out that someone’s dad was an abusive asshole and that they have a not-so-subtle death wish. He probably has several.

 

“You drunk, Pretty?”

 

Fuck. Nate twists in his seat to look at Mick-standing in the door, jacket gone, no gloves-and he knocks over one of the empty bottles in the process. It rolls across the table and over the edge and, for a second, he and Mick are both silent and staring at it, Nate holding his breath. It doesn’t smash. It just hits the floor with a loud thud. Nate lets out a long sigh.

 

“I’m not drunk,” Nate says, trying to stand. He realises it’s a big mistake when his stomach churns (hey, at least he can no longer tell if he feels ill because he can’t do anything to help Mick, or because of the beer) and the ship lurches beneath his feet. He flails ineffectually, wondering if he’s going to hit his head on the table on the way down, but is saved when Mick grabs him-when did he move-and steadies him, his hands warm, grip firm, on Nate’s upper arms. Nate grabs a handful of Mick’s shirt.

 

Nate shivers. No. Not the place. Not the time.

 

“You’re drunk,” Mick says, his voice low and amused as he pushes Nate back to his seat. Nate half expects Mick to leave, but he hears the scrape of a chair across the floor and then Mick sits down beside him. Nate watches him pick up one of the unopened bottles. “You’ve been drinking this?”

 

Nate groans and closes his eyes, letting himself slump against Mick’s shoulder. Mick doesn’t push him away. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

 

Dutch courage, that’s what it’s called, isn’t it? Nate isn’t really sure when the courage part is supposed to kick in. Maybe it works better if you haven’t spent most of your life avoiding anything more than a single drink at a time, just in case you end up splitting your head open and bleeding to death.

 

“Bad choice for somebody who doesn’t drink much.”

 

Nate opens his eyes again at that; Mick’s already halfway through his bottle and if the taste bothers him, he doesn’t mention it. His sleeve rides up, exposing some of the scars. Nate thinks about the fresh burns under the other sleeve. Thinks about the lighter that’s in his room, hastily shoved in one of the drawers. Thinks about how those scars probably cover much older ones. Nate closes his eyes again.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his forehead against Mick’s shoulder. He’s warm, so warm.

 

“For getting drunk? Just don’t puke on me and I’ll make sure you get to your room without waking everybody else up.”

 

“No.” Oh, there’s the Dutch courage. Nate kind of wishes it hadn’t decided to show up. _I’m sorry your dad was a dick. I’m sorry he beat you. I’m sorry you hate yourself. I’m sorry that I suck at this._ Because his own dad sucks, but Nate’s almost glad that his dad’s a distant jackass and not the kind of guy who takes his problems out on his kid using his fists. Thankfully, most of that stays in his head. “I’m sorry your dad was an asshole. And—and I’m glad that you didn’t die in the fire. I’m glad I met you.”

 

There’s the sound of Mick’s bottle hitting the table, and Nate prepares himself to either be shoved away (he’ll probably end up on the floor) or to make a quick escape (he’ll probably still end up on the floor). He doesn’t expect the way that Mick slides his fingers into his hair – his hands are cold from the bottle, condensation still clinging to his fingers—and just lets his hand rest there.

 

“Thanks, Pretty,” Mick says, and his voice is so raw that he sounds as if he’s been flayed open. Nate wants to cry.

 

He has no idea how long they sit there, Nate clutching at Mick’s shirt, Mick’s fingers resting gently against Nate’s scalp.


End file.
